Disassociating.

I sit in the back of class, hands slack, eyes wide. I am not high. I wish I was high. No, I am just disassociating.

Have you ever felt your heartbeat in your fingertips? I pick up a pen, fumble, drop it. No one looks at me. I wonder: am I really here? I hope I am. If I was not, where could I be? On the grass, outside the window. Not far away. I do not want to have to take a bus. I do not like public transport. No, I would lie in the grass, feel the blades on my palms. If I found a strand long enough I could cup it between my hands and blow, creating a high pitched tune, like fairy-song, like the sound a boy makes when you blow him.

I blink. The florescent lights are absorbed by my rods and cones, harsh and crass against my fuzzy optic nerve. The windows are open, every single one. If the vents in the school were to emit toxic gas, would there be enough fresh air to keep us alive? Or would we be like fish, gasping at the air, mouths circled into ‘o’s and lips pressed between the open slats of the glass. There would be panic, or perhaps we would be dead before we knew what was happening.

I feel as if I am dying, here and now. My heart is hammering through my ribcage; I am sure the entire class can hear. If they can, they do not show it. Maybe they can all read my mind, and know how badly I am dying, but do not want to embarrass me. Yet, if I believe I am dying, and they can read my mind, then why do they not help me? Help me! Help me! My mind screams. My heart pounds. My legs shake.

I am silent.

I am disassociating.